


you can have the best of me

by lettertotheworld



Series: see our reflections [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Mirrors, That's my new favorite tag, how many ways can i write about a mirror hanging over a bed without making it spicy, post e111, stay tuned!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettertotheworld/pseuds/lettertotheworld
Summary: "They’d tell stories about us in all the taverns across Exandria.”“They might get our story wrong,” Yasha says, “with so many different people telling it.”“Well,” she says with a shrug and a grin, “at least we’d know the truth, right?”
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha
Series: see our reflections [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954642
Comments: 16
Kudos: 216





	you can have the best of me

**Author's Note:**

> i have a mirror thing for them now so im making it into a series but each fic is unrelated to the last!! it's about the being understood and the bare reflections and the "i've seen you" godddd ugh  
> also!! thank u to everyone who read my other beauyasha fics holy shit the amount of love i have for all of u is INSANE <3

The mat is dotted with blue wildflowers from Yasha’s hair. She watches Yasha begin to pick them up, gathering them into a pile beside her, and Beau already feels her muscles aching deliciously when she kneels to help. Sparring with Yasha always invigorates her, calls on an emotion she can’t name that feels ten feet tall. When Yasha starts tucking the flowers back into a few of her braids, Beau’s offer is almost immediate.

“I’ll do it,” she says, and Yasha glances at her curiously, so she puffs out a breath. “I mean, it’s my fault they fell out, right?”

“Okay,” Yasha says, turns so she’s facing away from Beau and leans back to rest her weight on her hands. Beau is still kneeling, hobbles closer and grabs a handful of flowers.

“So, I just…”

She gestures at the back of Yasha’s head even though Yasha can’t see her.

“You can touch me,” Yasha tells her, and Beau’s heart knocks around in her rib cage, stomach twisting as she nods.

“Yeah, okay,” she says, then she has nervous, floral-scented hands in Yasha’s hair, taking care with each braid her fingers graze. “Hey, you know you have more white in your hair?”

“Oh, yes, Caduceus told me. Or…showed me.”

Beau’s hands slow of their own accord, suddenly taken and fascinated by the consistent wonder that Yasha gets to experience. Beau hopes Yasha is proud of herself. Beau is proud of her, is lucky enough to be witnessing this change.

“That’s amazing,” she says softly. “What does it mean?”

“I think I’m healing,” Yasha answers after a moment’s hesitation.

“It looks…beautiful.”

There’s heat rising in her cheeks, and she has to tamp down the urge to say more, has to focus instead on weaving delicate flowers into Yasha’s hair.

“Thank you, Beau,” she says quietly. “You’ve remade yourself, too, you know. I wasn’t…I haven’t always been around, but the you I met is not the you I know now.”

Beau huffs, ignores the tug in her heart.

“I’m still trying to figure out if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

Yasha turns at that and it stops Beau from putting the final flower in her braid, Yasha’s gaze on her. Yasha reaches for her hand that’s holding the last blue wildflower and brings her fingers in, closes Beau’s fist around it.

“It’s a good thing,” Yasha tells her, and it sounds like a promise. “I like who you are. A lot.”

“I like who you are, too,” she says quietly, because Yasha’s hand is still holding onto her own, and sometimes when they talk, Yasha’s eyes will darken like she has something to say, but it never comes out. Or maybe it does and Beau just needs to listen more carefully.

Yasha inhales deeply and nods, drops her hand.

“Now we just need to find some flowers for you,” Yasha ribs, and Beau laughs, because the idea is _entirely_ laughable for someone with her disposition.

“I think I’d rather have the badass war paint, if you’re offering,” she says, watches Yasha raise her eyebrows.

“Or that,” Yasha agrees with a shrug.

Beau blinks, wonders if Yasha is joking because it is actually _so_ hard to tell sometimes, and she hates getting things wrong.

“Seriously?” she asks. “Uh…you…wanna paint my face?”

Yasha reaches out slowly to brush strands of hair from Beau’s face, narrows her eyes for a good look at her canvas, and Beau’s stomach knots and knots.

“I will have to go ask Jester if we can borrow her paint,” Yasha tells her as she stands, and Beau can suddenly breathe again without Yasha consuming her space.

“Should I, like…” she starts, rises to her feet and throws her arms up, “I don’t know. Where do you want me?”

“Well, if we do it on your bed, you can watch me in the mirror,” Yasha says, lips curved into a grin, and Beau feels warmth spread from her face down to her neck, through her whole body.

“Yeah, yeah,” Beau agrees, clears her throat. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“Okay.” Yasha lifts her shoulders shyly, and Beau thinks Yasha might be genuinely excited about this. It’s doing things to her; terribly soft things happening in her heart. “I’ll be back.”

As Yasha walks through to the front room and leaves, Beau opens her hand, stares at the small scorpion grass in her palm. This one is more of a blueish purple, and it reminds Beau of Yasha’s eyes. She wonders if Yasha gave it to her for that reason, but Yasha couldn’t have possibly known. She was facing away from her, unable to see any of the flowers until they were already tucked into her hair, and Beau’s not superstitious, but she knows that sometimes the universe gives hand-outs. So, she pushes the flower into her own hair, somewhere along the side where her braid meets her bun, and maybe having just one flower in her hair isn’t going to kill her.

“Is this safe for my skin?” Beau asks.

“Of course,” Yasha says, and her voice is sincere, focused, as she runs blue-stained fingers halfway down the bridge of Beau’s nose. Then, “I would never hurt you.”

The words carry a weight, and Beau feels a phantom pain in her abdomen. Yasha would never hurt her. Because that hadn’t been Yasha, had been some version of her that got tangled up in netting. Lost and impossible to reach.

She dreams sometimes of Yasha’s gloomy eyes that day. Looming over her, not unlike how she is right now. The glowing at the back of her neck. The agony-soaked cry that clawed its way from her throat after it was all over.

Funnily enough, Beau doesn’t usually think about that day unless it shows up in her nightmares.

Or…not funnily enough, she thinks. Probably not funny at all.

All Beau can see through the mirror is the back of Yasha’s head as she leans over her halfway, not quite straddling her but definitely still closer to her than normal. Sometimes Yasha will shift and adjust her weight and their chests will brush. The effect is dizzying.

“How is it looking?” Yasha wonders, angles her head to look up in the mirror, and she smiles at Beau’s reflection before she goes back to painting.

“It’s…yeah, it’s good. Great. You know…we could be our own tribe. Cause all kinds of trouble,” she tells Yasha, but Beau’s gaze is on the mirror, eyes roving over the shape of her, down the back of her tunic, the curve of her waist, pants that cover her thighs.

Yasha exhales a laugh, and Beau feels the breath of it on her face.

“I think I have caused enough trouble to span lifetimes,” Yasha says.

“I didn’t mean bad trouble,” she says quickly as Yasha dips her fingertips into more paint and brings them to Beau’s forehead, smoothing out the frown on her face. “We’d keep doing good things. Helping people. You don’t have to go back to what they…made you. I’d never hurt you, either, you know.”

“I do know,” Yasha says, and Beau glances away from watching Yasha in the mirror to look at her. Her eyes are slightly dark, face carrying the slightest bit of a frown out of concentration. A pull at her lips and the pinch of her brows. Beau wants to reach out, wants to run her thumb over Yasha’s brow bone like she’s doing to her right now. “Good trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah, good trouble. They’d tell stories about us in all the taverns across Exandria.”

“They might get our story wrong,” Yasha says, “with so many different people telling it.”

“Well,” she says with a shrug and a grin, “at least we’d know the truth, right?”

Yasha hums, seems content enough with this future, and Beau knows how deeply the family wound runs in herself, but it runs just as deeply in Yasha. They’ve never known real homes, and the thought of all of this going away someday still hurts. Even if she has Yasha, whether Yasha is serious or not, she thinks it’s going to feel like an impossible thing to get over for a long time.

“It’s not always gonna be like this,” she says quietly, and Yasha leans up on her elbow a bit, adds a finishing touch to one of the more sparsely painted areas of Beau’s forehead.

“Well, I meant what I said,” Yasha tells her. “I don’t have anywhere else I’d want to be. Even if that means someday this group is just…me and you. Not wanting to let go.”

Beau exhales heavily, shakily, brings one hand up to Yasha’s shoulder, and she could, for all intents and purposes, be holding her in place as Yasha finishes painting her face. But her hand moves higher, finds the back of Yasha’s head, and Beau watches the action through the mirror, watches her fingers thread themselves in Yasha’s hair before she turns her attention away from their reflections, meets Yasha’s eyes.

Something sparks between them, and Yasha’s gaze falls to Beau’s lips. She slowly drags her paint-stained fingers down Beau’s face, down to cradle her jaw, her thumb at Beau’s chin, then her mouth.

“Are you done?” Beau asks softly, and if Yasha’s eyes bore into her any harder, she’s going to break, is going to shatter into small pieces beneath her.

Yasha grazes her thumb over Beau’s lower lip, then nods and moves her thumb. The hand Beau has in Yasha’s hair clenches nervously, and Yasha sighs, and Beau waits and waits and waits.

Yasha closes the distance carefully, presses her lips to Beau’s, and it was always going to be like this, always Yasha kissing her, and it’s _so good_ , the way Yasha’s mouth moves against her own. She almost forgets to respond, and the touch of fire makes Beau wonder how much Yasha has wanted this and for how long. Beau hopes it’s everything she’s imagined, if she’s imagined it.

But Yasha is first to pull away, and Beau lets her go, lets her head sink into the pillow beneath her and just breathes as Yasha does the same, as Yasha settles into a different position, a leg thrown over one of Beau’s. And Beau has extensively mastered the art of remaining mindful and calm in tense situations, but being under Yasha like this is beyond anything she’ll ever experience, and her heart is _racing_.

“You’re going to make me ruin all of my hard work,” Yasha breathes against her lips, moves her hand up to trace a finger over Beau’s forehead, and Beau can’t fight the grin that pulls at the corners of her mouth.

“Sorry,” she says, doesn’t really mean it because she is already leaning back in.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on twitter or tumblr :~)


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